The Poem
by prepare4trouble
Summary: A poem can mean very different things to different people.


**The Poem**

Leela read the note with a smile. It was a poem, and not a very good one. It was scrawled in less than neat handwriting on an old piece of slightly screwed up paper. The writer had gone out of his way to make it rhyme, and it was signed 'Your secret admirer'. Of course, Leela knew exactly who her secret admirer was, the least secret secret admirer she had ever had, not that she had had that many, not that she knew of at least. This particular secret admirer had stepped up his efforts recently. He had asked her out at least three times yesterday and four more the day before. Not to mention the flowers and chocolates and perfume he had sent her. But this poem was a whole new method of attack, one she wasn't prepared for, and it had caught her off guard. She had been aware for some time that he was gradually wearing her down and she was fairly sure that sooner or later, when he asked her out she was going to say yes. This was it. A bad poem, scribbled on a tatty scrap of paper. But it was so him, the whole thing screamed Fry and she couldn't explain the reason, but this was the moment Leela realised she had been wrong all this time. She wanted to be with him.  
  


Fry sat on the bed in his room in Bender's closet holding his head in his hands. He had gone too far and he knew it. It was one thing sending gifts and asking her out, but he had given her a poem. A poem where he had poured out his feelings as well as he could while making it rhyme. And he had made a fool of himself, he was sure. Since almost the first time he met her he had been in love with her. He had tried and tried to make her feel the same way about him, but no matter what he said, it came out wrong. No matter what he did, he did wrong. He didn't know what possessed him to write the poem, he was just sitting around bored when he thought of it, and before he knew it he was frantically scribbling down every thought that came into his head. When he crossed out the parts about how he wanted a pizza, he realised it was a poem about Leela. Actually he had been quite impressed with himself. He'd never done anything like it before and he was happy with the way it turned out. The only trouble was, whatever convinced him to write the thing came back and made him mail it to her. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now all he could think was 'stupid, stupid, stupid'. He was repeating it over and over to himself in his head, but the poem was sent and now all he could do was try some damage control. He didn't want embarrass himself any more that he already had, so he was going to do what he should have done a long time ago: Give up on the lost cause and admit to himself that chocolates and poems weren't going to win Leela's heart. He was also going to deny the poem was his. After all, he didn't sign it, anyone could have written it. 

Leela's phone rang and she ran to answer it. She wasn't surprised to find that Fry was on the other end. She smiled when she saw him.  


"Fry, this is a surprise," she said. It wasn't of course, but she wanted to play it cool. Fry looked nervous and slightly embarrassed, he was tapping his fingers on his knee and looking down, to the sides and everywhere else but at Leela.

"Yeah, um…I'm sorry to call so late," he began. Leela smiled again.

"No problem Fry, I got your poem." At this, his face suddenly seemed to be showing about ten emotions at once, shock, worry, embarrassment, and maybe even a little fear mixed in with some she couldn't even identify.  


"Poem? I didn't give you a poem. I'd never do anything like that, never been good at it. Even if I wrote one I wouldn't let anyone see it." This all came out in a rush; he was tripping over words trying to get them all out at the same time. This piece of news was a surprise. It wasn't like him to not admit to something he did. Especially when it was something for her. But then he was right; poems weren't his style, that's why it had been such a surprise when she opened it. Maybe she did have another admirer. But probably not. "I called because I've got something important to tell you," He continued. Leela was intrigued. "I wanted to tell you I'm sorry I've been going on at you to go out with me. I know you don't like me like that, so I'm not going to do it any more. You just want to be friends and that's fine by me."  


Leela opened her mouth to answer and closed it again, realising she didn't know what to say. A few seconds that felt like hours passed before she finally managed to form a word. "Oh…"  


"So I'll be going now. I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow." Leela nodded. "And that poem…I don't know who wrote it, but it probably isn't very good. You should probably throw it away and not tell anyone about it. That's what I'd do." Leela nodded again and Fry hung up.  


Still in shock, Leela hung up too and lay down on the bed. The poem was still laying there and she read it again. She smiled at the sweet words as a tear dripped from her eye. It didn't feel right to call him back and tell him how she felt now. Not after what he'd said. He might think she'd been lying every time she turned him down, like now he'd given up and she'd won, she was willing to give him a chance. She didn't want to do that to him or to herself. Maybe one day in the future she would be able to tell him, and maybe not. But for now she would keep it to herself. She put the poem in its envelope and put it under her bed, then she climbed under the covers to try to get some sleep.  
  


Fry took a deep breath closed his eyes. One phone call had ended any chance he had of being with the woman he loved. He couldn't carry on now had he said wouldn't. But it was probably for the best. After all, it was obvious that she wasn't interested and nothing he could do would change that. He didn't know why he wrote the poem, he didn't know why he sent it, but he knew that if he hadn't, he would have carried on as he was forever so he was glad it had helped him realise she would never love him.  



End file.
